


Fervor

by poni



Category: unOrdinary (Webcomic)
Genre: Hand Jobs, Hate Sex, M/M, Rivalry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-03-02
Packaged: 2019-11-08 00:09:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17970701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poni/pseuds/poni
Summary: Not every invitation comes in a cream-white envelope. John takes a hint, and perhaps a bit more.





	Fervor

**Author's Note:**

> ...so...unordinary, amirite fellas?! this is some kind of au. i can't tell you exactly what, but it's not canon, and also not quite not-canon. the dynamic's a little different, mostly because i wanted to write black-bubble john, and that's just the truth. i also had wanted to write a blowjob, instead of ending it where i did, but... nobody's perfect! (you live and you learn it!) anyway, hope you enjoy!

Anger was such a violent, unkind temptation. John knew that, just as well as he knew what he did when it took hold and shook his weakening grip on self-control, but the rope keeping him from falling back into it was beginning to fray. He could see it, the strands snapping and curling back, and he could not make himself any lighter to ease its strain. Each time he toed far too close to something unholy, easing into a possession by someone that he would rather forget. 

The future was bright, though only because the glare he created had blinded him. An opportunity to start over was a blessing, until those paths in his mind showed the damage of being altered far too many times with temporarily stolen abilities. Even if everyone became an enemy, no one could be a rival as bitter as himself. The way that he was perceived was dependent on a facade, a smokescreen that was dissipating enough to reveal him, the cold-hearted beast of conquest that he was— that he had never ceased to be, really.

John was unassuming enough to avoid the scrutiny of gazes that he did not attempt to meet. Arlo, however, was insistent. He saw him and _knew_. Though he could not identify what Arlo might have managed to gather, he need only meet the steel blue of his eyes to understand that he was thinking. An aptly named shade, John thought, with how cold he grew from the unfeeling metal in his stare.

When he tiptoed, creating space and aiming for parallel, untouching paths, Arlo crossed him. He was so smug, his presence the invasive species that would throw John into disarray. It burned through him. Each all-too-intentional encounter made that unending pit in his stomach snarl at him, a reminder that he was a starving creature with an appetite for tearing into irritating blond boys that liked to test him.

It was a warning. An intentional shove here and there was the talk of the entire school. No one could believe it, even when they saw it themselves. The static tension crackled, but neither of them had the courage to act on it. John feared the shock upon contact, but he did not know what kept Arlo circling him and never striking. He did not look upon him with fear, only a stinging malice. It choked him, though, hatred so palpable that he knew he would taste it clinging bitter on Arlo’s tongue. Perhaps he would find it sweet instead, thick and sickly saccharine like molasses.

Ah, and it was inviting.

Though it may choke him, John sought it. A look that he would have once found demeaning was an invitation. It may lean closer to a dare, or further still, a warning, yet John did not find himself deterred. He trailed Arlo like a deer, knowing that he was not prey, though that did not make John any less of a predator. Still, a clash between the apex would thrill him. That want coursed through him in waves. He needed something more ferine than warm. Arlo could give it to him, though to ask was a form of surrender on its own. To receive was kind, but to take was bestial.

Nothing could fit him quite as well.

John knew that he would not manage to catch Arlo off guard. A shove would not be enough to disarm him. Even so, Arlo indulged him, feigning shock when his back hit the wall. He knew that he would not take this route if it were not an effort to do exactly this. Despite such minimal conversation, the cues were obvious enough to the one searching for them. Only John could catch it, every sideways-cast glance and the curl at the corner of his mouth. Such a slight smirk, but it could set him aflame regardless.

“Really?” Arlo asked, a wheeze passing his lips as John’s forearm pressed into his windpipe. “Is this your idea of sensual?”

John eased his arm away, searching for a sign that he might attempt to overpower him. He could, at least with the ruse kept intact, and something in him boiled at the knowledge that he was only choosing not to. This was a game. Perhaps he only wanted to know what John would do.

“Sure,” John affirmed. Back-of-the-school quickies might not the the prime example of romance, but that had never been his goal. His hands did not tremble as he settled them on Arlo’s hips. 

“You’re so much more talkative when I don’t want you to be. Come on, _John_ , where’s that smart mouth of yours now?” Arlo prompted. He gave a half-hearted squirm, only to see if John would grip him tighter. He did. Such brazen confidence for someone he could crush, acting as if he had any right to this. 

“I’m not in the mood to talk, _Arlo_.”

“Then get on with what you _are_ in the mood to do. I’ve given you no reason not to.”

With those words secure in his grasp, John leaned forward. His chest was pressed firmly to Arlo’s, and he could feel how he breathed with unwavering steadiness. As if this was easy to him. John caught his mouth in a kiss and found Arlo to be pliant to these whims. His lips were soft, flawless like the rest of him. He put so much care into everything, and John could only think to ruin it. Ivory teeth grazed over pristine flesh. The threat of fangs was the bite to follow. John could feel him grow taut at every point of contact. John did not aim to eat him, only to taste him, and the harsh nip he gave was enough to bring copper to the surface. 

John dragged his tongue over that prick of blood with a sharp moan, and Arlo seemed more surprised by that than the fact he had bit him. With that shock having made him lax for a moment, it would be a wasted opportunity to not take that opening. No protest, so he curled his tongue around Arlo’s and found that he was not bitter. He didn’t taste of deceit or hate, more of mint, and John reveled in it. Even more so when he got a reaction; Arlo’s legs pressed tighter together when he decided to kiss him back. 

Forgetting about anyone that might see was a simple feat. John was hardly subtle when he rocked his hips forward in an experimental move. Arlo made some kind of noise, muffled by the lips still pressed to his own. Whether that was good or not was anyone’s guess, though the slight tremble that ran through him was indication enough to John.

Though distracted, John could feel Arlo trying to take air in with messy gulps. He pulled away to let him breathe deeper. His eyes were drawn to the way that his perfect visage had turned cherry red. There was still blood smeared at the corner of his mouth. John leaned in again, this time Arlo’s chest heaved. He licked the blood from his mouth, which was met with a sound of obvious distaste. He pressed his lips to his cheek, and the fire under his skin could have burned him through. John’s mouth found his jaw next, showing more mercy than he had to his reddened lips. He heard Arlo suck in a breath as he crept to the space just under, a spot so rarely touched that unfamiliarity was a pleasure in itself. 

John’s right hand released its vice grip on Arlo’s hip, though only to move elsewhere. He worked at the button of his pants, still nuzzling into his jaw. Still showing no hesitation, he slipped his hand inside his pants, curious fingers met with an unplanned and needy thrust. Just as his fingers curled around his length, John pressed his lips to the space behind his ear, and whispered, “Arlo.” His tone was far from sarcastic, but the sweetness was uncharacteristic for a name he so often spit with vitriol.

Even so, Arlo did not seem deterred. “John,” he trilled.

God, he hated to think of him as cute, but he felt that pang of momentary adoration in his heart, like looking at a kitten in the pound. John hummed, his grip too loose as he stroked him. It was intentional, a method of torture ended only by sacrifice of pride.

“You plan to get on with it?” Arlo growled in such a pitiful attempt at ferocity.

“Eventually,” John replied. He eyed the untouched skin of his neck. So perfect, too, and he had come to so despise perfection. It would be difficult for him to hide, but when John was at war with a primal instinct to mark, he was weak to it. Arlo’s only protest was a weak grunt as he started biting. He was lost to it all, or he would have thought ahead to the consequences.

Arlo had kept his hands to himself, for the most part, but they were beginning to drift. He had them rested proper and dainty on John’s back one second, and was gripping his jacket like a lifeline the next. He might be trying to say something, but all that came out was airy gibberish.

“You’re easy,” John murmured. His thumb rubbed at the head of his cock, and Arlo’s attempt to get closer only proved what he said.

“Yeah, says you.”

“Right, says me, because I’m the one tearing you up this easy.”

Now, Arlo thought he should have been grateful for John keeping his mouth shut earlier. Giving him any indication that he preferred it when he talked had been a dire mistake. 

John laughed, like this torment was a mere amusement to him. He could do better, but it was a fool’s move to use every trick at the first opportunity. He should have kept him waiting, however his own impatience was no small thing. He tightened his grip, and thought Arlo should be grateful for an unearned reward. 

“Come on. What are you holding back for?” John asked.

“Shut up,” Arlo hissed. He was so much less threatening this way.

“Don’t get touchy.”

Arlo squirmed. It was a warning, unspoken but clear. Excellent.

“You act like you don’t need it, Arlo,” John said. It was like he dug a deeper wound every time he spoke his name. He let him thrust into his hand, barely having to put forth effort himself now.

As if he intended to tell him otherwise, Arlo opened his mouth. He didn’t manage it, though, instead finding his hands wrenched in the fabric of John’s sleeves. Every part of him was weak, but he was so close. “John,” he choked out.

“Yes?” The smug expression was audible in his voice alone.

“ _John_ ,” Arlo repeated in a whimper. He didn’t know what he was asking for, if anything, but his name did not cease to tumble from his lips. Varying tones and volume, yet always an act of desperation. His head fell forward, pressing into John’s shoulder. 

“Come for me, Arlo,” John said, seeking this indulgence to soon fulfill his own.

This time, he sobbed it, broken voice crying, “John!” His hips stuttered, and Arlo came, hard. There wasn’t enough stability in his legs to support him, not with knees that felt like jell-o, but John kept him upright. 

A pathetic display for a king, and Arlo knew it. He could feel the sting everywhere John had bitten him now. That consequence was beginning to reach him. “Fuck,” he sighed, though it sounded a bit too close to tears to be only that.

Perhaps next time, John would not find Arlo’s mercy to be so freely given.

**Author's Note:**

> i don't have any social media for being a freak so... if you want to find me somewhere, i'd recommend blasting britney spears with a boombox in the middle of a forest at night and seeing if i show up.


End file.
